Maybe it was behind one of the couches, or in the sunroom closet, under the kitchen sink, or maybe out on the front porch. It was a mad hunt every Easter Sunday morning because my Mom kept me guessing as a child, that’s for sure.
And there were jelly beans – I loved the black ones – and hard-boiled colored eggs, and wrapped candies, and then, in the middle in all its glory, THE chocolate bunny.
But the basket was wrapped, too, with that pastel cellophane, and it only allowed this little man to peer inside but not grab an early-morning treat. Nope, Mass at St. Michael’s was first and foremost before the basket-bound candy carnage. Jesus Christ had made His sacrifice for all of us to be forgiven of our sins.
Easter, I believe, was my mother’s favorite holiday because she wore her fancy flare, she had her three children dressed very proper, too, and because Mom was a member of the church choir. And they were good, too, and people – even me – were proud to sing along with those balcony-based St. Mike’s parishioners.
It was a celebration, yes, because He was risen, but also it was wonderful to see those singing men and women be recognized, too, after the twice-per-week practices, the homebound humming, and the pride those folks took in their part of the worship. And I don’t remember a broader smile on my mother’s face after Mass, or after a boy found his basket.
Happy Easter to all.
